Allison LaSorda


Hook an eel and reel it in. It wraps around my hand
and wrist like a boa constrictor. My cousin yells
to hurry up and get the lure out, but the muscle, the persistence.

For the past week I’ve been visiting. I hug people,
see them pause. Someone concedes
they last saw me at a funeral.

Resolving expectations leads to loneliness.
There are blueberries in an old ice cream bucket.
Things grow faster than I remember; I eat quickly.

Clouds look different, more cheerful, which stirs mixed-feelings.
Ancestors made nuisances of themselves here, casting
their nets, planting, skills that have long left my blood.

A high school friend tours me around the valley sites:
the pig farm he can’t afford will be developed;
this used to be that. The drive makes me ravenous.

Stay in his childhood bedroom. He tells me he used to open
a drawer to lock himself in when he got in trouble.
Later, I open the drawer while I undress.